


Take Care

by BarnesRogersVsTheWorld



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 04:29:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14512575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld/pseuds/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld
Summary: Steve Rogers enters your antique shop and upends your life.





	Take Care

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a stand alone, but now I’ve decided to expand it. Likely three parts. Let me know what you think!

The first time Steve Rogers entered About Time, the tiny Manhattan antique shop you ran most mornings before hectic afternoons full of coursework and lecture halls, you were busy arranging a tray of costume jewelry in the display beneath your register. 

You peered at him through the glass, this hulking figure of a man, and while untangling the chain of a yellow, acrylic beaded necklace, called, “Morning.”

“Hello,” was his polite response as he pulled the old, squeaking door closed behind him. 

You made note to hit the hinges with some oil, said, “Let me know if you need anything.”

He didn’t answer, but you also didn’t bother standing from your seated position, awkwardly struggling and muttering at the mess in your hands. He was a quiet browser, his feet barely making a sound as you peeped him moving across the room through the counter glass. When you finally gave up on the display, you pulled the door to the case closed and stood, immediately catching his attention.

He offered a small, courteous nod, and you smiled.

He was dressed down; dark jeans and a heavy, fully zipped leather coat. He wore glasses you knew he did not need, and a Mets hat pulled low over his eyes. It was evident he was trying his best to be discreet, but you would have recognized him anywhere. 

You’d seen him during the Incident while studying for finals in the library. All the television screens had suddenly flipped to a live feed of Manhattan, and you’d watched alongside your peers with rapt attention as Captain America fought to save your city from the Chitauri army.

That’s what had ignited your interest in him. As a history student, it was not an inexcusable preoccupation. He was a war hero. A man lauded as the best of his time. An antique, himself.

And he looked so unassuming as he strolled the shop, seemingly enjoying the quiet, early morning solitude, now and then stopping to examine a carefully placed object or part of a display.

Your mouth lifted in a smile as he paused in front of a case of colorful Depression glass. Leaned forward to examine the tagged prices. Straightened again with brows raised in incredulity.

You wanted to laugh out loud. You could practically hear him: They used to give this stuff away! It’s what your grandparents had always said, at least. But you remained silent, lest Captain America suspect you were on to him. 

He wandered for nearly an hour before leaving empty handed.

“Take care,” he said to you as he dipped out the door, hinges squawking in his wake.

*

“How was class?”

You certainly aren’t quiet around Steve Rogers now. He sits on a sofa opposite you in the commons of Avengers Tower, knees drawn close to him so that he has a resting spot for the notebook he is writing in. He’s wearing a tight white shirt and loose sweatpants, his hair messy and shower damp. He has an easy smile. A stark contrast to the buttoned up man who’d quietly told you to take care for the first time so long ago.

But you still aren’t used to it. 

You’re still a little awestruck everytime you set foot into the tower. So.Much.Space! You’d exclaimed the first time you had, after rigorous security clearance, brain aching as you tried to calculate how many of your own apartment could fit inside. 

You still marvel a bit over Steve Rogers every time you think about him. How he is a living, breathing piece of history. And how you are his friend. You are actually, for actual reasons unbeknownst to you, Captain America’s friend.

You sigh at him now, shake your head in exasperation, “God. I missed it. Didn’t even get to go.”

He glances up from his notebook, sensing a story. His eyes scan your face and he nods as if asking you to go on.

You shift your feet onto the floor, lean forward a bit and rest your forearms on your knees, “I was walking Nana on our square before I left…”

Steve immediately smiles at the mention of your Landseer Newfoundland, a giant, 160 pound ball of docile fluff who captures the attention of everyone she meets. She’d definitely captured Steve’s. You wave your hands a bit and contine, “Mrs. Fitzgerald, you know the older lady who lives beneath me? Had an incident.”

He glances up at you again. Back to his notebook. “She okay?”

“She is now, but it was awful. Her dog, Gilda, she’s a terror. She was walking her in the square, too, and she fell into the fountain installation in the center.”

“Mrs. Fitzgerald?”

You shake your head, “The dog. Fitz fell in while trying to pull her out. And of course I am the only one there, so I go over and haul them both out, falling myself in the process.”

Steve peers up from his notebook again, suppresses a smile.

“She’s gotten a finger caught under the collar. And Gilda’s thrashed so much in the water that it is completely wrapped around her. And it is so tight! Her finger’s the shade of a grape. Gilda is yelping because she is strangling herself, and I am struggling to free them both, soaking wet in a New York January thank you very much! And they’re both crying, so I almost start to cry because, even though she is the devil, I don’t want the dog to die. And then I remember, thanks to someone we both know and adore, I am now a knife carrying badass. So I whip it out and cut her free just in time like the budding superhero I am.”

You lean back, raise your palms up in a gesture of mock modesty, and look at him as if to say go ahead and recruit me. And Steve is watching you fully now. His eyes light with amusement at your over the top expression. He studies you, taps his pencil against his bottom lip. Laughs a bit and says, “So you saved the day?”

You shake your head. You want to frown at him, but your mouth insists on a smile, “You think I am so lame,” you say.

And he laughs again, “No, it all sounds very traumatic.”

“It was! After helping her home and into dry clothes I was so drained I went straight to my little tin can upstairs and crashed. Nana sat on me for a good hour. She likes to do that when I’m upset.”

“Good ol’ Nana,” Steve grins. He leans back into the sofa. Glances down at his notebook and chuckles silently to himself for a bit, amused appreciation at your mundane adventures, you think. 

“It’s been a while since you’ve seen her,” you say, “She’s starting to take it personally.”

And his eyes flit to yours again, he narrows them, as if trying to decipher the meaning in your words. But it’s fairly obvious.

Steve has an easy listening ear, he laughs in all the right places of your stories, offers funny quips, remembers everything you tell him. And you know he’s busy. Off being gallant and heroic and saving the world. But it’s been a while. And you miss him.

His eyes dart back to his notebook, he makes a face. A half smile before shaking his head, “I’ll do better,” he says, “don’t want her to think I’ve forgotten about her.”

You sit back onto the couch, pulling your feet beneath you as you study him. When he glances up at you again, you smile.

“What has you so occupied over there anyway?” you ask, nodding your head toward his lap. You cannot see over his knees, “keeping a diary?”

His mouth quirks in a silent laugh, he clears his throat, “One could say,” he answers.

You cross your arms in front of your chest. Ponder. “What would Captain America write in his diary, I wonder?”

And Steve takes another quick glance at you. Looks down again, “Dear Diary…” he murmurs slowly, as if he’s writing it out, “today...I...kicked...ass. Everyone...loves me.”

And you snort, “I think he’s a bit more modest than that.”

“That’s what he wants you to think,” he answers, resuming his normal writing pace, “He’s really a prick.”

*

The second time Steve Rogers walked into About Time, you were polishing an old record cabinet, contorted awkwardly to reach the inside corners. You didn’t hear him at first, thanks to freshly oiled door hinges, and when he called a polite, “Good morning,” you let out a yelp, jumped back slightly and banged your head against the frame.

“Ow,” you whimpered as you stood, frowning as you rubbed the back of your head. Remembered ruefully why you let the door squeak in the first place.

He moved in your direction, held out his hands as if to say sorry, and in a worried voice asked, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” you muttered. And then you looked up. He was dressed down again. Covered fully, the same Mets hat pulled low over his eyes. He wasn’t wearing glasses this time. And his eyes were startlingly blue. You felt heat creep up your neck, winced a bit as you tacked on, “Unless we’re talking about my dignity.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

You waved the hand not holding your head, “No worries. Knowing me it would have happened either way. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

He shook his head, expression still apologetic, “Do you need ice?”

“For this? No. A time machine, maybe,” you gestured around you, his mouth twitched as if he thought about smiling.

“Let me know if you run across one of those,” he said. And it made you feel like an ass once you remembered who you were talking to, but he didn’t seem upset over it.

“Sure,” you answered, foregoing an apology, still unwilling to blow his cover.

“Sorry again,” he said. You waved him away.

Steve left empty handed that day as well, ‘Take care,’ but it hadn’t stopped him from returning. 

He always entered the same way, a quiet greeting and a hat pulled low. You began to think he wasn’t really ever looking for anything besides comfortable solitude and a bit of nostalgia. You even began arranging displays to feature things you thought he’d like to see. The two of you hardly ever exchanged more words than a greeting and a goodbye, and a few polite smiles in between.

But that all changed with Nana. 

You brought her in on a school free day, promising play time at the park after your shift, weather permitting. She’d been to work with you several times before, calm and well behaved despite her imposing size. She spent most of the morning curled behind your counter snoring. 

When she turned up missing mid-shift, you didn’t panic. You didn’t even call her. You only quietly wandered the shop, searching for where her curious mind had taken her.

You heard Steve, whispering in the corner, before you saw them.

“Look at you,” he was cooing, his tone higher pitched than normal, “you’re being so good. Who taught you to be so good, huh? What’s your name?”

He was crouched down like a child, face level with her, scratching her behind the ears. Her mouth hung open in a docile smile, her large tail languidly wagging.

“Nana,” you said to him, and Steve’s gaze shifted to you, “a gentle giant.”

He smiled, scratched beneath her chin, “She’s amazing. Is she yours?”

You nodded.

“Hey there, Nana,” he said, and then to you, “Nana? So does that make you Wendy?”

You laughed, “Just a fan of the story,” and gave him your name.

“I’m Steve,” he said in return. You nodded once. Smiled. You’d half expected him to give you a false one. 

“Can you shake?” he turned back to Nana again, holding out a hand. She immediately placed a paw atop. Your smile turned into a quiet chuckle. Your hand was so much smaller by comparison, you wondered if she noticed the difference, shaking that of a super soldier’s. Steve seemed delighted by her compliance.

“If she starts to be a bother,” you said, “just tell her to stay put. She’ll listen.”

But he shook his head, eyes on Nana as if he couldn’t imagine anyone ever growing tired of her. You couldn’t either, honestly, but it was how she’d come into your life in the first place. Left behind by someone who couldn’t or wouldn’t care for her. You walked away, busied yourself with another task, letting Steve have his space.

You were surprised when, before he left, he walked up to the counter holding a small 4x6 postcard. 

And while it was probably the least valuable thing the store had to offer, monetarily speaking of course, the old postcard display was amongst your favorite. You spent so much time thumbing through them, reading the carefully looped cursive exchanges from people long since gone. An intimate glimpse into the past.

He sat the one he’d chosen on top of the counter. His smile was soft as he slid it toward you.

An old, black and white photo of Ebbets Field, home of the Brooklyn Dodgers before they were relocated cross country and it was eventually demolished, replaced by apartments.

“I guess it looks a bit different over there now, huh?” You weren’t even thinking when you said it. And when you glanced up at Steve, his eyes were narrowed slightly, as if trying to work out whether your phrasing had any implications.

Oops.

“A bit,” he said finally, slowly. With an air of suspicion.

You glanced down at the postcard. Slipped it into a clear archival bag as he pulled his wallet from his jacket, “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” you said, it was too casual, trying too hard to reestablish the feigned ignorance, “No charge. On me.” And you held it out to him. You knew when he met your eyes the secret was out. You were never good with poker faces, and guilt riddled your features.

“Not a very lucrative business model,” he said to you, “giving people things for free.” He took the bag from your hand. Raised his brows questioningly.

And you sighed, because there was nothing left to do under the scrutiny of Captain America’s stare but admit it, “Well, you are the reason this place is still standing anyway, so we can just call it an unbalanced trade.”

And the confirmation made him shake his head. Blow a breath past his lips. You couldn’t tell if he seemed flattered or annoyed.

“How long have you known?” He asked.

You clasped your hands in front of you, rested your elbows on the counter, “The entire time,” you said, “But we can go back to pretending I don’t right now if you’d like. I just can’t pass up a chance to say thank you now that you know I know. Truthfully. What you do is really important. And I’m glad I chose to live in city that has you protecting it. God,” you laughed, “that sounds so intense. I’m sorry. This was why I didn’t say anything.”

And Steve smiled at that, relaxed a bit, “No, it was nice. Thank you. And thank you for this,” he held the card up, tipped it toward you.

“No worries.”

“I have to go,” he said, “But I’ll see you around.”

“Sure.”

He turned toward the door. Paused just outside of it, and turned back to you, “And we don’t have to.”

Your brows raised in question, “What?”

“You know,” he gestured, “go back to pretending you don’t know.”

And he looked so sweet. Uncertain of himself in a way that tipped your mouth into a grin, “So I can call you Captain now?”

He breathed a laugh at that. Shook his head slowly, “I’d rather you call me Steve.”

You clicked your tongue in mock disappointment, shrugged but said, “See you around, Steve.” 

“Take care,” He tacked your name onto the end of the goodbye as he disappeared through the door. You were flattered he remembered.

You thought perhaps, despite the pleasant exchange, you’d frighted Steve Rogers off when you’d blown his cover. Several days passed with no sign of the Avenger. You resigned yourself to the fact that one time you gave Captain America a postcard, and he’d remembered your name. And that was it. A cool story. Not that you’d share it with anyone.

And then one morning the door opened, alerting you with a tinkling chime. Nana barked, and you heard her stand from where she’d been sleeping, pressed against the front window as if waiting hopefully for a glimmer of sunlight.

You peered over your shoulder at the man standing in the doorway. It took a moment for you to recognize him in nothing but athletic pants and a close fitting top. His dirty blonde hair was messy, pushed back off his forehead. 

He leaned against the frame, titled his gaze up and pointed, “You have a bell now.”

And you smiled at Steve Rogers. Turned around and leaned against the counter. Nana was already at his feet, “Mhm,” you answered, “keeps the quiet ones from scaring the bejesus out of me.”

He smiled at that, stepped inside and let the door close. “Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” you answered. 

He carried an open top box in one arm. Lavender hued, with a stylized cupcake on the front. Nana nudged her nose against it and he chuckled.

He looked to you, his words were careful, “So, there’s a bakery close to the Tower that sells pastries...for dogs,” he said, “And I pass by it every day. I didn’t want to assume it was okay. But I bought one...just in case.”

And he almost looked bashful. It made your smile widen, “Oh no,” you said, and for a moment he looked disappointed , but then you continued, “You are setting a dangerous precedent, Steve. Raising her standards. I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“You don’t mind?” He asked. Nana seemed to know the conversation involved her. She nosed his box again, raised her paw as if trying to convince him to shake.

“Of course not,” you said, “Do you know how much she eats? You’re only helping ease my financial burdens.”

He grinned. Patted Nana on the head, but sidestepped her and made his way to the counter. He sat the box on top, lifted a large, bone shaped pastry out of it and set it aside. Then he reached in again.

“This one's for you,” he said, placing a napkin wrapped doughnut in front of you, “They make them for people, too. And coffee,” he pulled out a lidded cup, “didn’t want you to think I was playing favorites.”

“Ah, well. She’s everyone’s favorite. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well I owe you. For the postcard.”

“That was one thing. This is two. Three if you count Nana’s, so…”

And Steve shook his head, “No. We’re even.”

“There’s also the whole saving the world thing which means saving my life by proxy. Can’t really put an even gift exchange on that. I was wrong about easing my financial burdens, you’re actually just piling on the debts.”

Steve cut you a look, “Eat your doughnut and stop,” he said, and turned to give a semi-impatient Nana her treat.

You unwrapped your own. Purple iced and covered in sugared violets. It was pretty. The type of pretty that people often deemed social media worthy, but you didn’t mention that, positive the concept would be ridiculous to Steve. Instead you said, “Thank you, by the way. That’s really nice.”

“Don’t mention it,” he answered, scratching an appeased Nana between her ears.

“Okay. Because I would say it’s why you always win the favorite Avengers polls, but I doubt you buy coffee and doughnuts for all the citizens of New York. Must be something else about you.” 

Steve shook his head, but kept his eyes on the dog and gave her an exasperated look. Finally, he stood. Ran a hand through his hair. He hesitated a bit, an internal debate in his mind.

“I’ll be gone,” he said finally, “For a bit. Out of state.”

And you tried to hide the inexplicable feeling of disappointment his words caused, “Somewhere exciting?” You questioned, quirking a brow.

He gave you a look.

“Oh, somewhere top secret and exciting?” You nodded, held your hands up, “Okay. Say no more,” you gestured to Nana, “ We’ll hold it down here. I’ll night patrol. Take the long way home.”

And Steve almost laughed, but considered the possibility you may be serious, “Don't do that,” he said.

And then, “I have a meeting I’ll be late for if I don’t go now. I just wanted to...you know...” he gestured toward the counter.

“Sure,” you said. You felt a blooming affection for Steve Rogers then, not just his Captain America persona, “Thank you, again. You’ll come by when you get back?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, pushed the door open, hesitated.

“Take care of yourself, Steve Rogers.”

He smiled at your use of his goodbye. Gave a small nod, “You, too,” and he was gone.

*

“I found something for you today.”

Steve peers up from his notebook, eyes suspicious.

“I just remembered,” you stand, cross the room to his couch, don’t miss how he casually tips his notebook back, rests the open page against his chest so that it isn’t visible. 

“I bought it off a regular.”

“Bought it?” He questions, with a tone of disapproval. But you wave a hand at him while reaching the other into the pocket of your jacket.

“Don’t give me any crap off it, you save the world,” you grumble. The same argument you’ve used against him since you’ve known him. He looks like he wants to smile.

“It’s not a big deal, anyway. Just something that made me think of you,” your fingers catch on what you’re searching for. You withdraw it and pass it over.

Steve takes it from you, examines the small black and white photograph behind the protective sleeve. His expression softens. He runs a thumb across the bottom corner, the faded blue ink signature. He’s quiet.

“I saw him play,” he says finally. It’s soft. Touched.

“I figured.”

And he looks at you. His brows are drawn, as if he’s struggling to contain his thoughts. “Where did you find this?”

“I told you, I got it off a regular. He likes me. Brings in baseball memorabilia all the time. I just happened to ask if he had anything from when the Dodgers were in Brooklyn. And don’t worry, I got a very long lesson about the life and times of Pete Reiser. So if you have any questions…”

Steve laughs. It’s soft. He seems almost unsure of what to say. Seems to begin to speak several times before stopping himself.

Finally he just settles on, “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.”

And he shakes his head as if to say you’re wrong, but actually says nothing.

“By the way,” you say, recalling your lesson on the outfielder, “He was classified 4f when he tried to enlist. Fun fact. If you didn’t know.”

“By the Navy,” Steve answers. He does know. A small smile quirks his mouth as he adds, “Army took him.”

“Yeah, because they wanted him to play ball. He had a serious head injury! I’m really questioning the Army’s judgement calls back then.”

Steve laughs a short, surprised laugh. “A shot at me,” he says, nudges your arm playfully. 

“Yes. Pretty much. What were they thinking?” You nudge him back. Not hard, but harder than he’s expecting. He drops his feet to the floor to keep his balance. His notebook falls face up onto his lap. Your eyeline naturally falls to it, and you see for the first time that he hasn’t been writing at all. He’s been drawing.

And you recognize the face. 

Quickly he picks it back up. Holds it against his chest again. Closes his eyes and makes an indecipherable face. His entire demeanor suddenly shifts.

“Sorry,” It’s your automatic response. As if you could’ve helped looking. And he shakes his head. Draws his bottom lip between his teeth. Releases it. Sighs.

“I should be,” he says. It’s quiet. Strained.

“Can I see?”

Steve opens his eyes again. Doesn’t look at you. He’s quiet so long you don’t think he’ll answer. But finally, slowly, he passes the notebook to you.

You’re not sure, even in the amount of time you’ve known him, that Steve has ever seen you with your hair down. There’s always an excuse for you. It’s too hot. You don’t feel like washing it. You’re too busy. Too lazy. But here it is, rendered in a careful hand, sweeping across your face in photo-realistic detail. There’s no color to the drawing, but he’s played with the shadows in a way that makes it look as if the sun is on your face. Your mouth is an open, laughing smile.

“I didn’t know you were an artist,” you say, fingers gliding along the edge of the paper. Steve is stiff beside you. His answer is short. Clipped.

“Casual doodler,” he says.

“Nothing casual about it. This is serious effort, Steve.” 

You don’t mean to imply anything by it, but when you look up, it’s obvious that he’s taken it that way. And by the expression of guilt that twists his features, it’s obvious he has reason to.

Oh. You think.

Oh.

Oh.

And suddenly his tension makes sense in an entirely new and different and miraculously obvious to you now kind of way. His recent absence absence from the store, even, is suddenly more relevant. And as the realization settles into you, you look away from him. Sit a little straighter. Your heart starts to accelerate, and heat creeps up your neck. And you feel wrong. Shocked. Sad. Panicked. Confused. 

Wrong.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he says. It’s rushed, there’s an edge of fear in the tone. The entire atmosphere. The air between you. Suddenly it’s just nothing but wrong. “I’m not trying to...I would never -”

“I know,” you answer quickly. If anything to keep him from saying it. From making it anymore true. 

“It’s just my way of dealing,” he says finally. It hangs in the air. Heavy. Sad.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper.

And Steve is never exasperated with you. Never truly. But now, as he closes his eyes again. Shakes his head and draws his brows together. Now you can see an expression of desperate frustration grace his features. And it’s with you. With the situation. But it’s mostly with himself. 

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. His hands slide slowly down his face, beneath his chin. His fingers cover his mouth as he sighs through his nose. He sits back again. Presses his lips together. His laugh is soft, tinged with a bitterness that he does not like.

“I’m always in your store,” he says slowly. Hesitates. Pushes the rest of his words out like they are painful, obvious, “I never buy anything.”

And it hurts. Everything hurts.

The look on Steve’s face. The drawing. The admission. The guilt. 

And you feel it, too. Guilt like a mass weighted heavily in your chest. Because you feel so stupid. So wrong for ignoring what now seems so apparent. Because you would be very hard pressed to say that, somewhere, deep in the locked away places of your heart, there’s not a part of you that knows exactly how he feels. Because you can feel it, too.

“He can’t know,” Steve mutters. 

And you feel the panic build in your chest again. Because it’s not coming from a selfish place. Steve is never selfish.

Because, if he knew, nothing would change between him and Steve. But everything would change between him and you. Because he wouldn’t, couldn’t be with you if he knew how badly it hurt his friend.

“He’s good with you,” Steve says, “He smiles with you. I can’t take that away from him.”

And it’s desperate, because he’s looking at you now and he can see it in your eyes. The weight as you feel the burden shift onto you. The Catch-22 of knowing how much it hurts him. How much it would hurt the other to know. Either way ending in hurt. And it feels like it pulls the breath from you. The reality of it pricks your eyes, constricts your heat.

And Steve looks so so sad. Sad for you.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it feels like a plea. 

And it hurts even more. Because why should anyone ever feel sorry for loving someone.

You both hear the snick of a door closing down the hall. And it shifts the tension in the room. Blows it away like a draft. Steve takes the sketchbook from your hand and carefully closes it. And you stand. Because you need a change. A shift in position to reset your body. You pull your mouth into a smile. 

He enters the room quietly. His eyes find yours immediately. The corners crinkle when he smiles a gentle, hesitant smile. When he softly speaks.

“Hey, doll,” he says.

*

“Are you bringing other people in to show off my dog now?”

Steve looked up to you as you stepped into the room, an easy, innocent smile on his face. You’d become used to the casual, more at ease version of him, the one who frequently stopped by, fresh from a morning run to chat you up on various topics. Nana even became used to the routine. Would pace the door every morning like clockwork before he walked in. Always slipping her some sort of small treat and scratching her behind the ears. 

He stood behind Nana now, who had her mouth open in that panting smile as a second man crouched before her. He was muscular like Steve, dark hair that touched his shoulders. You couldn’t see his face right away, but knew by the sharp angles of his defined jaw that he was likely handsome. 

He scratched Nana beneath the chin as Steve said, “Look, she’s obviously attention starved. I’m just helping her realize her dreams.”

And you snorted as the dark haired man stood.

“This is a friend of mine,” Steve said as he turned to you. And you were right.

He was handsome.

Light stubble dusted the jaw of his shapely face. Full lips, defined cheekbones, strong brows, and eyes so startlingly blue they pierced right through you. They made the blood woosh in your ears, the prickle of familiarity raise the hairs on the back of your neck.

And when he said his name, “Bucky.”

You breathed out, “Barnes.”

You shifted the atmosphere. Turned it upside down in an instant. The super soldiers stared at you. And you’d never seen Steve look afraid, but in that moment a twinge of panic crossed his expression.

“I gave a presentation on the Howling Commandos my Sophomore year of undergrad,” you said quickly, as if it would diffuse the tension, “That I realize now was very factually inaccurate.”

Steve said your name, like a warning. A caution. He stepped around Nana and closer to you. You looked to Bucky again. His eyes were wide.

“I’m sorry,” you said to him as he locked your gaze. Panic lingered behind those startling eyes. Disbelief, uncertainty, fear, pain.

And whatever it was, whatever was the cause of it, it gave you an immediate, overwhelming urge to protect him.

“I’m also great with secrets,” you said. Your tone was careful. Soothing in a way that was normally foreign to it. You stared at Bucky Barnes, willed him to trust you with wide, gentle eyes, “I have a lot of them.”

*

Bucky tucks a piece of hair behind your ear now. Runs a thumb along your cheekbone. It’s his sweet but discreet way of showing affection. And you close your eyes. Lean into the touch.

“Sorry I kept you waiting,” he says.

“I don’t mind waiting for you,” you answer softly. Sweet in a way that makes his mouth quirk upward slightly. And it feels simultaneously weightless and heavy in your chest. And you’re suddenly aware of Steve. Behind you. Suffering. And it hurts in more ways than one. 

Because already, Bucky Barnes plucks the strings of your heart with easy, gentle fingers. Always gentle with you. 

And the thought of losing that. Of losing him, aches heavily in your soul. Wrestles with the desire to not hurt another man you’ve grown to care for so very much.

And you hate it. It’s not some glorious, desired fantasy. You don’t feel like some important, sought after prize. You want to destroy every story that has ever suggested otherwise. Because it’s painful. It punches you in the gut like a freight train. 

But you smile at Bucky. You smile because he deserves a smile. He deserves everything good and kind in the world.

“Can I see it?”

There was no ‘Hello’. No ‘Good morning’, when Bucky Barnes first entered your shop alone. There was simply a tinkling of the overhead bell, the soft thud of footfalls, and a quiet, throaty plea.

“Can I see it?”

You looked to him, clad in a jacket zipped to his throat, hood pulled discreetly over his head. His eyes were blue and wide. A little wild. But you expected that was something that always lingered there now. 

Steve had filled you in, albeit slightly reluctantly but with Bucky’s permission, he’d said, on the life of post Commandos James Buchanan Barnes, a brainwashed and abused but now slowly recovering former HYDRA assassin.

And you wanted to see him after that. You wanted him to know what you thought a man in his position would vehemently deny. That you knew the truth. And it hadn’t changed a single thing you’d thought about him before. 

And you weren’t afraid.

You tried to convey that now as he stared at you, awaiting your reply. But you were only confused. Swallowed when you asked him, “What?”

“Your presentation,” he responded quietly. On the Commandos. On him. 

“Oh,” you nodded, “Of course. It’s saved on my laptop at home. I’ll be free in twenty if you’d like to wait?”

“It doesn’t have to be today,” Bucky licked his lips, attempted to smooth the crease between his brows, to ease his look of intensity, “if you’re busy. I don’t want to be any trouble.”

And you offered him a smile, “You’re not,” you said, “you’re no trouble at all.”

*

“You look very pretty,” he says, mimicking your smile. 

And it’s a breathtaking thing. A rare, beautiful glimpse of a once broken but slowly pieced back together man. His eyes crinkle at the corners. He takes your hand in his. Twines the fingers. A rare display of intimacy.

“Ready?” he asks, and you nod.

And he turns to Steve before you go. Unaware of the cloud that hangs heavy between the two of you, “Hey, we’re just grabbing pizza,” he says, “Sure you don’t want to come?”

Because he always asks. And because it’s always been easy. To sit with the two of them. To laugh. To share. But that’s permanently lost. Steve’s eyes flit to yours very briefly. And the pain of the loss is behind his, too.

But he smiles anyway. He smiles for Bucky. Because Bucky deserves it. 

“I’m okay,” he says, “You kids have fun.”

“We’ll stay out of trouble,” Bucky answers, turns toward the door, pulls your hand gently to follow.

“Night, Steve,” you murmur, turning away from him. You’re at the door when he answers.

“Take care of yourself.”


End file.
